


Plucked From the Tree Of Life Like a Plum

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Pasiphaë and the Bull [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Gen, M/M, arty bullshit, light kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are your mother's only son- and you're a desperate one.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plucked From the Tree Of Life Like a Plum

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by a line ("Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum") from the song, The Best Is Yet Come, by Sy Coleman and Carolyn Leigh, which has been interpreted by numerous artists. I like the version by Sarah Vaughan. The quotation in the summary is a line from the song, You've Got Everything Now, by The Smiths. The 'And what must life be' line is a paraphrasing of something I once heard in an episode of NYPD Blue. The line about swimming comes almost directly from the Morphine song, Like Swimming. So, don't go thinking that I'm cool and can come up with original ideas. This story takes place in the same universe?- general milieu?- time line?- as the last story I wrote, "Foie Gras". I am not associated with the production of Gotham, and this school is not associated with the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

He's being fucked. And there's no doubt about it. In the the literal- very much so. Completely. In the figurative- only time will tell to what extent. It feels less like a specific act than a process, a slow unwinding among the snares on the way to true power. How could he expect to triumph completely unscathed?  
Out of nowhere, but somehow inevitably, he thinks of the little cuckoo in Falcone's nest. Oswald is in the backseat of the big car Maroni sent for him. When he tried to sit in the front, the driver cleared his throat and shook his head, and Oswald frowned. He likes sitting in the front. Most of the time, they let him. In the back, though, it's so cozy, padded and shadowed, and in that private little chamber, he thinks of Liza, as he saw her earlier in the day, ridiculous white dress and absurd tea tray. Is she being fucked, too? By Fish, surely- because Fish fucks everybody. But by Falcone, as well? And what must life be for Liza, such a hapless thing, fluttering like a dazzled moth between two great flames? Oswald could attempt to scrape up some sympathy for her, but he smiles bitterly to himself, sticks out his chin cruelly. If she's pathetic, it's because she's merely the servant of two masters- nothing more. Oswald, of course, is his own master. Everything he does serves, ultimately, only him. Girls, he's observed in his limited experience, don't learn to think that way. Or, if they do, it makes them hard. Perhaps that's what happened to Fish.  
Will it happen to him, though? Nonsense- he's already hard. He can't think of a time when he was ever soft.  
Of course he can. He can think of lots of times. He's sure that's how he must still appear to people. Thinking of fish bellies and earthworms and pudding, he frowns. He worries at the inside of his cheek. He crosses his arms over his chest, feels his features drift into a pout. Suddenly, he wants to tell the driver to turn the car around, to take him back home. To kick his heels and stamp his feet until he's given his way. As he must always be.  
But he's not a child, and he knows that it's too late. Sometimes, the better part of getting one's own way is submitting to the will of another. It never stops hurting, though; deep within him, he can almost feel it, behind all of his organs and things, a great black pearl of indignation. He sighs. In this soft compartment, he could fall asleep. And not wake until all of his plans had come to fruition, developing all on their own like living things.  
It's always the same hotel. Always the same suite, too, which he imagines Maroni must own, or as good as own. The driver doesn't take him up, for which he's grateful, those few precious minutes alone in the elevator to let his breath stutter in and out before he has to be natural and gracious. Why is he nervous? He's done this enough times that he should no longer feel- what?- marked? Like anyone who looked at him could tell; like the fingerprints showed on his skin like those made luminous at a crime scene. Such a naive thing to think, he scolds himself. Or, if anyone could tell, they obviously didn't give a shit. The only person invested in safeguarding his virtue is his mother, and as far as she's concerned, it's still intact. He winces. He doesn't want to think about any of that. Anyway, there's no one in the elevator to see him, so none of this matters.  
With the sound of a somnolent breath, the elevator doors open onto the empty room. Oswald calls out; Maroni responds that he'll be a minute, and that Oswald should have a drink. The bar is crowded with bottles, and it occurs to Oswald that he's never actually made a drink for himself; they've always been given to him. He examines all of the bottles, sniffs the contents, feeling ever more confused. How does one decide what one likes? Especially when all liquor smells more or less the same. He picks up a bottle of scotch, holds it up to the light, looks into the amber eye of the liquor. A lot of men drink this. Should he? He puts it down, picks up a bottle of vodka; he knows that it means 'little water', and it does look like water. The bottle's never been opened, and the cap crackles off pleasingly. It smells the most like pure alcohol, not woody or herbal or medicinal. He pours a couple of inches into a glass, and takes a sip. Where the vodka touches is lit up with hot pain, but almost immediately afterwards comes a rich, rolling warmth, spreading from his lips into and throughout his body. It's the way a kiss should feel, he thinks, and takes bigger sip. His throat aches, and he clenches his eyes shut, but the pain burns out quickly. Leaving only the warmth. He drinks the rest of it in one swallow, shutting his eyes again, his hand on his breastbone. Now, he feels so much better; he wonders what he ever had to feel bad about. He pours another drink, finishes that even more quickly.  
Just as he's pouring a third, Maroni appears. “Go easy, there,” Maroni says, hot iron behind the warmth of his smile, “I don't want to take advantage of you when you're drunk.”  
“I'm not drunk,” Oswald says, as soberly as he can.  
Maroni takes the bottle from him, puts it back in its place. He nods toward the drink Oswald's holding. “Last one for a while, okay?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good.”  
Oswald sips it, beginning to enjoy the sting.  
“Anyway,” Maroni says, “you don't drink vodka from a highball.”  
“No?”  
“And it should really be chilled.”  
Oswald smiles. “I always learn so much from you.”  
Maroni laughs, his big, glorious laugh. “Get out of here. One of these days,” he wags his finger, “I'm gonna start thinking that you're bullshitting me.”  
Oswald shakes his head. “Never.” He finishes his drink.  
The curtain comes down, and Maroni regards him gravely. “Swear it.”  
“I swear on my mother's life.”  
Frowning, Maroni shakes his head. “Swear on your own.”  
The words come out as smoothly as a ribbon of silk. “I swear on my life.”  
“You know what I'll do if you disappoint me.”  
“Yes.”  
“And I won't do it to your mother; I'll do it to you.”  
“Yes.” When did Maroni take hold of him like that, hands on his arms, no pressure, but the suggestion of it? The idea of force. He finds, also, that he's now leaning against the bar; its edge like a stern finger at the small of his back.  
“Good. Kiss me.”  
Oswald wobbles as he comes up on his toes, but the bar is there to support him. He wonders if he tastes like alcohol. It's certainly all he can taste. It's blotting out everything. His sense of taste. His sense of smell. His conception of time. Has he been here an hour or a day? Maroni's hands are in his hair, which would usually bother him, but right now, it feels too good. It all feels too good. The roughness of his tongue and his fingers, a whirlpool of friction that threatens to pull Oswald under. Oswald, who is such a strong swimmer, and has already once avoided death by drowning. But that was cold, and this  
is warm. So warm. Bathwater-warm kisses to his mouth, lingering long, Maroni's tongue rough, but his lips soft and slick, then slipping down his throat. His tie is gone, and so, he realizes, is his jacket, and he waits to feel the cold, but the chill never comes. Maroni's hands are on him, but the warmth is coming from within. He pulls away, unbuttons his shirt completely, takes it off.  
“You don't drink a lot, do you?”  
“Not really,” Oswald says, not understanding the question. He only ever drinks when someone gives him something.  
“It's kind of affecting you.”  
“Do you not like it?”  
“Did I say that?”  
“No.”  
“Take off my shirt.”  
Oswald starts with the second button; the first is already undone. He fits his hand under Maroni's chin, tilts his head back; it comes to him, the watery suggestion that if he were to strangle Maroni, it would go something like this. But he applies no pressure, just caresses, unbuttoning the rest of the buttons, moving his hands down and under the material.  
“You look deep in thought, there.”  
Oswald looks up. “Hmm?”  
“Nothing, nothing. Let's take this to bedroom.”  
“Still feeling out of it?” Maroni asks in the bedroom. Which is dark. Always so dark.  
“No. Not out of it. I'm in it.”  
Maroni laughs, a thunderclap, a crash, in the dark. “All right. I'll leave you alone. Just tell me if you start seeing pink elephants.”  
Oswald plunks down on the edge of the bed. “Come here,” he says. His voice sounds like it's coming from the other room. Maroni comes close. “Closer.” Closer. Oswald touches. Softly. Gently. Closes his eyes, and listens to soft breaths. Imbues his caresses with a little roughness. Listens to jagged breaths, the bitten-off end of a moan. Undoes Maroni's pants, and slips his hand inside. Touches flesh, blood-hot and blood-full. Hears Maroni swear, and moves more vigorously.  
The alcohol is fading like twilight, but Oswald still wants to give in. So, he can give in to this. He never remembers what he likes until it's happening, anyway. Better to let it happen, and decide later how he feels. He exchanges his hand for his mouth, and remembers. How good it can be. When someone is so completely dependent on you. Maroni's hands are soft on his face, in his hair, telling Oswald what he wants- faster, slower, less, more. More. Definitely more. So much more that Oswald has to hold on. Lest he fall into the sea and drown.  
Maroni comes, and Oswald lingers for a moment before he lets Maroni's cock slip out of his mouth. With a look, he excuses himself, goes into the bathroom and spits in the sink. His lips feel bruised, and his legs ache, in long lines, from the hips down. As he makes his way back into the bedroom, he has to steady himself against the furniture.  
“You all right?”  
“Oh, yes. It's just too much time in one position.”  
“Ah.”  
Even in the dark, Maroni still turns his back as Oswald undresses. Is it courtesy, or squeamishness? What does he imagine Oswald's hiding? And why is it sufficiently terrible to turn from, but not sufficiently terrible to make Maroni not want to fuck the body those legs are attached to? When he's done, Maroni turns around again, also nude. Covers Oswald's body with his own. Kisses him, long and deep. It's nothing like the vodka, but there's still such luxurious heat. Maroni's hands are on him, all over him, putting that heat into his skin, driving it into his flesh. He touches back, moves against Maroni, re-positions himself so that he's riding Maroni's hip, following this rich road until its terminus.  
“You like that?”  
“Yes,” Oswald gasps.  
“Do you want me to do something else?”  
“Like what?”  
“I could touch you. Go down on you.”  
“No. Just- just hold me.”  
“Hold you like this, or hold you down?”  
“Oh. Oh. Could I try- could you hold me down?”  
Maroni takes Oswald's wrists, pins them over his head. And that changes everything. It's terrible. His back makes a shallow arch, and there's a sudden press at the base of his spine, and his legs are forced open. His hips throb ferociously, and his shoulders, less so but with a finer pain, and suddenly, he's very afraid, and he doesn't know why. What is he thinking of? When was he ever trapped, with no hope of escape? Never, surely- not like this- but his heart is pounding. And it's wonderful. The pain sharpens the pleasure into a pin that fixes him to the spot, and the adrenaline is splendid, sparkling. He hears himself cry out before he's even aware that he's done it.  
“Jesus Christ,” Maroni murmurs, lets go of his wrists, and looks down at Oswald. “I had no idea you liked that sort of thing.”  
“Neither did I,” Oswald laughs, wriggles a little, sighs at the echoes of orgasm, little ghosts from a little death.  
“After that, I'm going to need to fuck you again.”  
“I think I'm going to need fucking.”  
“What do you want? How do you want me to do it?”  
“How?”  
“Like this, face-to-face?”  
Oh. “Oh, yes. Like this.”  
“Do you want to watch me?”  
“I suppose that I do.”  
“Put a pillow under your ass. I'll be right back.”  
Maroni leaves him, and Oswald does as he was told. Now, he's thankful for the dark. He can't imagine how he must look. And Maroni's going to have to be very careful in order not to see anything he doesn't want to see.  
“I should just make him look,” Oswald murmurs; feels a flash of panic when he realizes he's said it aloud. Of course, he can't do that. It's better with the sheets over him, anyway. It's like hiding from the world.  
But he can't hide anything from Maroni. Unless it's the things Maroni doesn't want to see. By now, Oswald is sure that Maroni simply prefers to remain oblivious to the truth. Otherwise, how could he not know? It's completely irrational, but Oswald can't imagine being able to hide anything when they're this close. Maroni's on top of him, inside of him, and even the beating of his heart doesn't feel like it belongs to him.  
He must be overwrought. He has to be. When his nerves feel worn-through, and he's not even sure of what hurts and what doesn't. Or it all hurts, but he still doesn't want it to end.  
He's being fucked. And there's no doubt about it. In the figurative- only time will tell how much. In the the literal- very much so. He's held down, and he's held open like a door in the wind, and it doesn't properly hurt any longer, but it still feels so strange. He can't stop moving, like he wants to get away, but of course, it's not that. It's like swimming, pushing and pulling against the water that wants, wants so badly to pull you under. He pushes hard against Maroni, and though it's he who feels a pang, Maroni makes a sound as though he's been hurt.  
“Fuck.” Before it really registers that it's happening, he has his hands on Oswald's knees, pushing back. The pain is minimal, but Oswald still starts. From surprise, more than anything. Those hands have touched almost every part of him, but not there, not yet. If Maroni notices the unexpected turn of the joints, the scar tissue like foam on the sea, he doesn't let it show. Just keeps fucking Oswald. As though nothing had happened.  
Maybe nothing has. Maybe nothing will ever happen again. Maybe Oswald is dissolving; turning to foam, himself, and merging with the sea as he drowns in it and it swallows him.


End file.
